


any way the wind blows

by wowzaKy



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: AU where Quackity never joins Pogtopia, Abuse of Authority, Abusive Relationships, All relationships are platonic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, AnD ITS aBouT BlocK MeN I stG, Angst, Anyways, Depression, Dream Smp, Emotional Manipulation, I think this ones shaping up to be my darkest fic yet-, Insecurity, Manipulative Relationship, No Respawn AU, Politics, Quackity needs a Hug, Self-Esteem Issues, Swearing, Torture, Villain Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Wilbur Soot, Violence, War, don't worry it'll get better, i am upsetti, probably, tbh everyone needs a hug, why is quackity & fundy not a tag y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:19:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27258562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wowzaKy/pseuds/wowzaKy
Summary: Quackity doesn’t know what to do. But what he does know is-Schlatt can't do this.He’s the vice president, goddammit! He isn’t about to- he isn’t about to be bullied by Schlatt into destroying the White House.<><>Or, an AU where Quackity never joins Pogtopia
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Quackity & Fundy
Comments: 43
Kudos: 267





	1. chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _(title from Hadestown the Musical. check it out. it slaps)_
> 
> Hey y'all ! ! !  
> sooo, this is my first time posting for a fandom this big :v  
> heed the tags, shit gets real.
> 
> _(also some of the dialogue this chapter is directly from/inspired by Quackity's stream 10/17/2020)_
> 
> **chapter c/w:**  
>  **\- allusions to violence**  
>  **\- actual violence**  
>  **\- references of alcoholism**  
>  **\- not super great and toxic relationships (this ones gonna be a running theme folks)**  
>  **\- (Unofficial Warning) as per usual, my aggressive overuse of ao3's html coding.**

Quackity doesn’t know what to do. There’s a throbbing in his temples and an ache in his side from where Schlatt slammed him into the wall of the White House minutes before. It will probably bruise. He isn’t surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time- but.

_Schlatt can’t do this._

He’s the vice president, goddammit! He isn’t about to- he isn’t about to be bullied by Schlatt into destroying the White House. They- _he-_ worked hard on this! What’s he even going to do with the land?! The only project in the works is Schlatt’s fucking hotel and _they already secured land for it._

_Schlatt can’t fucking **do this.**_

In his hands, his pickaxe weighs heavy. Solid. The wood smooth against his sweating palms, unrelenting to the press of his white knuckles. Despite its familiarity, Quackity doesn’t think he has the strength to lift it, his shoulders taught, shaking.

Schlatt is having no such problem, happily swinging his pickaxe through the walls- happily destroying Quackity’s pride and joy. A smirk twists onto his face, tinged with purposeful cruelty. Schlatt knows exactly what he’s doing. Inebriated as the President is, he isn’t a fool. He knows what the White House means to Quackity and he just- didn’t care.

Honestly? Quackity wouldn’t be surprised if Schlatt is doing this just because he knew how much _Quackity_ cares. This isn’t some demolition plan for future construction. This is a statement. A warning.

_The look in Tubbo’s eyes when Technoblade held up the crossbow is seared into his mind. The kid’s stuttering panic, begging Schlatt to let him out, as Quackity stood off to the side, useless and ignored, is not something he’s forgetting anytime soon. There was cruelty there too. Cruelty that condemned a child- a spy, but a child nonetheless- to death. Cruelty and a festival that was nothing more than a sick tomb built by the hands of a child whose corpse it was meant to hold._

He still doesn’t know if Tubbo survived. He… isn’t sure he wants to know.

_The festival was a warning, too._

“Schlatt- stop. Fucking- stop.” His side- already purpling beneath his suit- protests his laughter, awkward and tinged in anger, hysteria. Telling Schlatt no never ends well. Not lately, anyway. There used to be a time when “no” earned a laugh, long ago… he isn’t sure when that changed, when Schlatt turned from his friend to…

Schlatt continues. Like he never heard him. Ignoring him, more like. Again, it wouldn’t be the first time. Quackity wishes he could bring himself to be surprised.

Just… once. It’d be nice to be surprised.

He should’ve seen this coming, if he’s completely honest. Long before they reached this point. Long before they reached other points-

_Tubbo, illuminated in red white blue **red-**_

All Quackity wants is a little slice of power, a pinch of respect, is that too much to ask?

_Well, that and-_

_\- and in the beginning, he wanted freedom from Wilbur Soot, a man who drags kids to war- kids only a few years younger than him, but nineteen is basically adulthood- and at least he’s old enough to actually fucking enlist legally, Christ Wilbur- but now- but now he doesn’t- he doesn’t know what to do-_

“Schlatt!” The anger bleeds through, consequences be damned, “Dude! I’m the fucking vice president, we share these fucking decisions!” Words repeated for the thousandth time- _**Schlatt can’t do this-**_ jaw tense, he takes a shaky step forward, “Schlatt, I said stop- stop, fucking stop!”

Schlatt stops.

A beat. A breeze sweeps the room, peaceful in naivety.

Then, he turns to Quackity. Smirk bleeds to sneer- cruel.

_Is this too much to ask?_

Quackity freezes.

_When you grow up alone, you grow up fast. You grow up with venom under your tongue and you learn when to spit it._

Between the two of them- Quackity & Schlatt, Schlatt & Quackity- there’s always been this push and pull. A give and take. No matter what bullshit people spew behind his back, Quackity is no bitch boy. No matter what Schlatt throws at him, he’s always been able to fight back. A complaint here, a joke there. Laugh off the nastier comments, toss Schlatt’s weaknesses back at him-

_\- Hangover cure in hand, massaging aching limbs, whispered Spanish in the dead of night, plans for a better future-_

all part of the strange dance Quackity found himself in with the man called J. Schlatt; they had verbal arguments, maybe a thrown glass or two (or six, but who’s counting?) on Schlatt’s drunker nights, maybe a light shove; nothing Quackity couldn’t handle or dish back out. No matter what they say, Quackity is no pushover.

_When you grow up alone, you learn when to suck it up and bite your tongue._

Before he can blink, Schlatt’s a foot away and Jesus- how the fuck did he move so fast-

and Schlatt’s arm pulls back, pickaxe raised- swinging-

pain.

Knocked back,

he hits the ground hard, sticky wet against his side.

Copper fills the air, crowds his nose, crimson below his palms press, oh _fucking_ shit-

Schlatt grins, mouth full of shark teeth, looming, pickaxe up, Quackity scrambles back,

back, back, _back back fuck fuck fuck oh shit **it hurts**_

He swings down.

raw scream erupts

it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts

cackling rough blood under palms dripping off the pick pooling on the floor

dripping down

down

down

  
_Is it too much to ask?_  


looming above him a devil horned eyes red as his hands as the axe as _oh fuck it hurts it_

**_ a warning _ **

Hours or seconds or days pass in a blink of haze until something splashes onto his hair- _where did his beanie go, he can’t-_ it runs down his face, mixes with his tears, and suddenly he can think. The pain dulls- _never leaving, when he breathes he can feel the pickaxe hit swinging down oh god oh fuck Schlatt hit him with-_ His suit is ruined. Seeped in his blood. From a wound that’s already clotted shut.

What the _fuck?_

Bleary, terrified, Quackity blinks up a Schlatt. A half empty potion of healing rests in his hand, opposite the axe still dripping red.

Schlatt’s grin widens, turning at the corners, evil, cruel cruel cruel.

_No matter what anyone says…_

All he wants is power.

A pickaxe, **The Pickaxe** , the one drenched in his blood, _the one Schlatt fucking stabbed him with,_ clatters to the floor beside him. The bang it makes on impact rattles his bones. His own axe is nowhere in sight, lost in the previous panic/pain blur.

Oh god, he’s gonna be sick.

“Schlatt- what- “

The grin freezes. Morphs. He’s seen Schlatt angry before- but. Not like this.

Bile climbs his throat.

Quackity is no pushover.

But with hands trembling- _not from fury now, no no no-_ he picks up the bloody pickaxe.

Still. He hesitates.

He doesn’t know what to do.

Schlatt can’t- _he **can’t**_ \- he

\- snarls a warning,

**“Get _fucking_ mining!”**

_No matter what anyone says…_

Quackity turns from Schlatt and begins to mine.


	2. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for that update schedule lmao
> 
> **c/w (mild spoilers):  
>  \- referenced violence  
> \- implied dissociation  
> \- panic attack**

The White House is gone.

Tommy stares slacked-jawed at the empty hilltop in front of him, his mind whirring overtime as it tries to process what exactly he just witnessed.

His first thought is: what the fuck?

The second: what the _actual_ fuck?!?

Because, right, the White House is gone. Really just- gone! In its place nothing but dirt and air, not even a chunk of cobble to suggest it had ever been there at all. 

Wild. 

Hysterical wheezing erupts from his chest. He shouldn’t be laughing, but his mind is too busy trying to process- WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE **FUCK?!???**

He wasn’t able to see real well, what went down, from his shitty little ledge on the hill, and he’s sure he spent more time uselessly squinting at the windows than anything, but Jesus Mother Christ, Tommy’s pretty sure Schlatt has finally, well and truly lost it. Flipped off his rocker, bat-shit insane. 

“Holy shit,” Tommy breathes in deep, gasping breaths, trying to quell the giddy excitement humming through his lungs, “wait ‘til Wilbur hears ‘bout _this_.” 

<><>

The White House is gone. 

And honestly? Schlatt’s never felt better. The whole thing was a fucking eye sore! Manberg better be lining up to thank him for this- god, what a drag. All this time wasted when he could’ve been working on his bicep curls, or chugging alcohol like he was still trapped in a near empty server flooded with lava. 

Angry hornets stir in his chest, a swarm. No matter, he’s got big plans for his country.

‘Specially now that the White House is out of the way and his sniveling Vice put back in his proper place. 

Oh yes, big plans indeed. 

Striding past the remnants of his festival- _Jesus, what a shit show that was_ \- Schlatt grins. Clasped in one hand is a book. The key to his future success, if he does say so himself; in his time as a businessman, he’d come across many bountiful items. Many powerful, magical items; this server won’t know what hit it. 

His communicator is in the other, and he absentmindedly fiddles with a button on its side as he walks. When he reaches a more secure area (AKA his house, grandiose and expensive like a man of his stature deserves), he taps the screen once and lifts it to his ear. It’s only a little awkward, holding it under his drooping ram ears; they didn’t tend to design communicators with hybrids in mind. Huh. He’s probably rich enough to do something about that, now that he thinks of it. Maybe later, when he’s not too busy securing his victory. 

Solid is the book against his palm, sharp is the smile on his face as the ringing finally stops, and Schlatt can taste his win already. 

“Hello Dream. How would you like to make a deal?” 

<><>

Quackity doesn’t remember getting home. 

He’s mining- _the White House is gone, it’s fucking **gone**_ \- and then he blinks and he’s pressed up into the corner of his home, muscles stiff and aching. He’s lost his blazer somewhere in the empty space in his mind, suit shirt rumpled, untucked, and he probably looks like a fucking mess, but- he can’t muster the energy to care, because his fucking White House is gone. Just. Gone. Like it was never there. Like it never mattered. 

He was no pushover. 

Ha. What bullshit. 

It only took one measly whack of a pickaxe (the one Schlatt made him mine with, the one covered in his blood, his brain reminds, as if he can’t remember how it felt to have its curved edge slide into his flesh like butter, tearing apart his very being, as if he still can’t _feel the fucking wound throb_ and- and-) and he caved. Destroyed the very thing he loved. The thing he poured his heart and soul into. 

_“Hey Schlatt, how do ya like it? Pretty fucking sweet, amiright??”_

All he wanted was-

_a better future, a home. Quackity never had a home before. Now he never will_

-power.

Quackity has never felt more powerless in his life. 

Something inside him feels broken. Frayed. A rope worn away by weather and wind, finally snapped. Like his very being has been crumpled like one of Schlatt’s discarded files, bent out of shape irreversibly, lost his purpose- assuming he ever had one to begin with. 

“Fuck.” Quackity laughs a cracked, wet thing, wiping his hand through his hair- _oh, his beanies gone too_ \- curling in on himself. The walls are too close, too much against his skin, his clothes, he-

Everything is fuzzy. Blurry. Glass windows smudged by some grubby little kid’s hands. Colors dialed down by some unseen remote and noise radio static in the back corners of his ears, building up, up, up like a balloon rising in the sky and _oh my god the White House is gone._

He can’t stop laughing, laughing and squeezing inwards as if he compresses hard enough he’ll stop existing and he’s laughing and gasping and screaming his raw throat bloody and the White House is fucking gone it’s gone- Schlatt- he- he- 

_“Jesus Q, when’d you build this?”_

_“Do you like it? You got a room up top, decorated that shit myself.”_

_“Heh- I love it. It’s classy. Just what men like us need.”_

_“Exactly, exactly! Come on man, let me show you around-”_

__

__

_“Damn. You spoil me, sweetheart.”_

__

__

_“Anything for you baby.”_

__

__

-He trusted him. 

__

__

But the White House is gone.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad to see people actually enjoy this. It’s funny to me that this idea that’s just- so wildly canon divergent & outdated (Jesus dsmp moves fast)- is my most popular fic akskalks 
> 
> NOt tO mEntiOn thE chApTerS oN thIs thIng aRe sO shOrt lIkE- ThE comBinEd Word CoUnt Isn'T eVen ThE siZe of oNe oF my RegulAr ChapTeRs 
> 
> Don’t know when the next update will be for this. I’ve got a lot of other projects in the works rn (speaking of- expect an update of Kiss Me, Oh Morpheus in the next few days! We on that writing grind bb) on top of my job & school & personal life lmao. Not to mention it’s hard to stay motivated when this is barely relevant anymore hA- but ! I’ll try not to make it as long of a wait as this chap was. 
> 
> Comments & kudos fuel me, so feel free to drop any down below! I do my best to reply to all uwu 
> 
> Have a fantastic day everyone! Stay safe out there.


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